


All the King's Horses

by Ritequette



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Swap, But I promise this has a happy ending, Heavy Angst, I am committed to turning every silly fanfic trope, M/M, Multi, You just gotta work for it, into a unending sea of angst and pain, up to and including
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritequette/pseuds/Ritequette
Summary: At twenty-seven, Viktor Nikiforov is the reigning world champion of Men's Singles Figure Skating. With a dozen medals under his belt, and the undying love of his many fans across the globe, he skates his way through his latest Grand Prix Final, in Sochi, with ease, taking the gold for the fifth consecutive time. He's at the absolute peak of his career, a cut above the rest.And that's pretty impressive, considering Viktor Nikiforov hasn't been awake in four years.Yuuri Katsuki, on the other hand, has been awake that entire time. Inside Viktor Nikiforov's body.(Or, the angsty Body Swap AU everyone's going to hate me for.)





	1. Chapter 1

**2015**

**Sochi**

_“With an absolutely stunning Free Program, Nikiforov takes his fifth consecutive GPF gold medal!”_  

* 

He skates around the rink twice, a victory lap, hands held high, after the final notes of _Stay Close to Me_ fade into the ether. The crowds cheer for him, throw flowers and stuffed animals that look suspiciously like Makkachin, plus little trinkets and souvenirs he has no room for in his apartment in St. Petersburg. He waves to his beloved fans, smiles at them, winks at them, anything to make them swoon and cheer and jump for joy.

Over the last four years, he’s learned all the tricks. How to make people love you. How to make them _adore_ you. All the tricks he didn’t know Before. (He was forced to learn them, in order to become who he is now, but in hindsight, he wishes he had found another way. He is fake enough already without the additional façade.)

He reaches the edge of the rink, the opening that leads to the Kiss & Cry, where Yakov is waiting for him. His coach doesn’t bother with a lecture about his minor mistakes this time, since he’s clearly battered the competition into submission once again. The announcers blathering on about his latest masterpiece of a routine don’t have any doubts he’ll be taking home the gold.

Judging by the crestfallen faces of the other skaters scattered about the rink—Chris, Leroy, Crispino, Altin, and Bin—no one else doubts the result either.

Not surprising. He hasn’t flubbed a routine bad enough to knock him off the podium since that disastrous Skate America four years ago, his first competition After. He doesn’t make mistakes like that anymore. He can’t without ruining the legacy. He can’t without breaking his oath.

He walks with Yakov to the bench for the Kiss & Cry, and sits, waiting for his scores to be finalized. His knees ache something awful, the consequence of three perfectly executed quads, and his arms are a lot more tired than they used to be after his extensive, complex choreography. He has to be careful with this body in the coming two or three years; everyone has their limit, even Viktor Nikiforov.

The scores come up. And he wins gold by a wide margin.

The crowd cheers again, and the other skaters mourn—for a minute or two. No one expected him to lose, so their disappointment is short-lived. They know if they just keep at it long enough, they’ll eventually succeed. They’re all younger than he is. His reign won’t last forever.

As Yakov pats his back, muttering, “Excellent work, Vitya” in Russian, he wonders idly if he should blurt out what he’s been considering for the past several months. Retirement.

It’d be respectable, wouldn’t it, to retire at twenty-seven? Before he starts losing out to fresher faces.

At the same time, he doesn’t want to quit _too_ early. It’s a balancing act. He needs to honor this career, do it justice. He can’t cut it short, and he can’t let it fizzle out.

He rubs his temples and sighs. To think the hardest decision of his life would be when to end Vik—

“Vitya,” hisses Yakov, again in Russian, “pay attention to the press. You’re missing questions.” 

He perks up and glances to his right to see the standard gaggle of reporters with their microphones outstretched, faces eager for the next piece of celebrity gossip. He puts on his happy face and throws out the same bones as usual, nothing substantial, nothing concrete. If he does end up announcing his impending retirement—and that’s a big _if_ , still—he’ll do it at the press conference later, not here in the Kiss & Cry while his muscles are still screaming from the exertion of his Free Program.

In four years, _that_ is something he’s never gotten used to. His lack of stamina.

He had so much more Before.

The podium ceremony goes by in a blur, and at the end of it all, the three winners skate a few laps, showing off their medals. He kisses his in that flirty way he always does, which makes the crowds go wild, while Chris waves his silver around like it’s a yo-yo, and Leroy, the newcomer, stares at his bronze like it’s just vindicated his entire existence.

He remembers that feeling. It fades over time. 

Yakov trails him to the locker room, where he changes out of his pink and black costume and back into a simple, loose outfit, his red and white Russia jacket thrown over top. His coach stares at the ceiling while he dresses, saying nothing until his day bag is zipped up and he makes to exit the room.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say at the conference?” Yakov finally says. 

He feigns ignorance.

Yakov presses. “I’m not a fool, Vitya. I know you’ve been thinking about retirement lately. I can _see_ you, your thoughts, whether you like it or not.”

He wants to laugh at this. Yakov seeing his thoughts. _If only._ If only Yakov could read his mind, this would have all been so much easier to handle. He smiles thinly and answers in Russian, “You’re not wrong. I’ve been thinking about it. My knees are starting to go on me. I’m worried another season might lead to an injury that throws me off for good. Even if I’m not skating competitively anymore, I still don’t want to stop skating altogether. If I mess up, push too hard next season…”

Yakov hums thoughtfully. “I understand your concern, but before you make your decision, let’s speak with your doctors first. They can examine your knees again. Wait for their verdict. I don’t want you to cut yourself short, Vitya. Even if you only have one season left in you, that’s one more season of broken records and victories. I want you to get what you’ve earned.”

Yakov can be a hard-ass sometimes (most of the time), but in moments like these, he can see his coach cares about him, on a personal level as well as a professional one. 

He nods. “All right. I’ll wait for the medical exam. Then I’ll make my final decision after Worlds. Will that work?”

“Good decision.” Yakov pulls the door open. “So moderate your comments at the conference, okay?” 

“You make it sound like I run my mouth, Coach.” 

Yakov raises an eyebrow. “If you think you don’t…”

He _does_ laugh at that, and then walks out into the hall.

Yuri Plisetsky is waiting in the hallway, tapping his foot impatiently. The boy won his own gold today, for the Junior Division, his _last_ Junior GPF, but he’s still wearing that perpetual scowl. The kid’s been nagging for months for the _great_ Viktor Nikiforov to choreograph his Senior debut routines—did he agree to do so? He can’t remember. (He’s a little forgetful like that sometimes.)

But given how much Yuri bugs him, the answer is _probably._  

Great. Like he doesn’t have enough work in his future already.

Half an hour later, he’s at the press conference, and the cameras are flashing in his eyes, and the microphones are in his face again, and the questions won’t stop coming. He thanks the same people for success that he always does—his coach, his rink makes, his supportive fans. He gives vague answers about his inevitable retirement—he’s considering his options right now. He makes no concrete statement at all about his future _after_ he retires.

And that’s because he still doesn’t have any clue about his future. After he finishes fulfilling his promise, runs the full length of his skating career, until it reaches its natural end, capturing all the gold medals along the way…what will he do then?

What _can_ he do then? 

Or, the better question, what can he do that wouldn’t be based on a gross lie? Live in Siberia as a hermit?

He’s been thinking about this for years, and he still hasn’t come up with an answer.

Chris and Leroy answer their own questions in time, the conference wraps up, and he joins Yuri and Yakov again. As they’re heading out of the building, his phone buzzes, and he tells his two comrades to go ahead, he’ll catch up in a minute, then ducks into a bathroom.

When he pulls out his phone, he sees the message is from Yuuko Nishigori. The only person in the world who knows his secret. 

He clicks on the message, which is written in Japanese. 

Not a big deal. Japanese is his native language.

 _There was a change today. I thought you’d want to know. The EEG showed some differences in his brain function. They’re running more tests now. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but it’s the first significant change they’ve seen in two years. This might be…something._  

Something.

He presses his forehead against the cool tile wall. Something. Something like what? Something like an awakening? After all this time? After all his visits, to see a young Japanese man lying comatose in a hospital bed, hooked up to life support, fed by tubes, lungs controlled by machines. After all his hours sitting in stiff chairs beside that bed, hoping and praying for this man to wake up. Or at least for his _idol_ inside this man to wake up.

After all this time he’s _wasted_?

After all this time he’s _waited_?

Could it be possibly be…something? For real?

Yuuri Katsuki sits his phone on the sink counter, braces his hands on either side of it, and gazes up at his reflection in the mirror. 

Viktor Nikiforov stares back, like he has every day for the last four years.

Since Beijing. 

Since the great tragedy that tore the skating world apart. 

Since the moment between After and Before.

Since the day Yuuri was knocked unconscious in one body and woke up in a different one. The body of his idol, the man he wanted to emulate, the man he wanted to _become_. 

(But not like this. Never like this.)

He picks up his phone and cradles it to his chest, a prayer on his lips, whispered in Japanese. He pictures his own comatose body in that hospital bed, lying helpless, weak, and pale. Housing whatever remains of the man Yuuri has worshipped all his life.

“Wake up, Viktor,” he says, again and again, to nothing but the reflection in the mirror that doesn’t truly belong to him. “Please wake up.”

*

**TRAGEDY STRIKES FIGURE SKATING GRAND PRIX FINALS**

Beijing, China

_December 9, 2011_

 

In what is being called the most horrific tragedy in figure skating history, a speeding car plowed into a large crowd outside the Capital Indoor Stadium in Beijing as the day’s Grand Prix Final events were letting out for the evening, around seven o’clock local time. 

Twenty-six people, including two Junior Division skaters and four Senior Division skaters, were pronounced dead at the scene. The names of the deceased have not yet been released by the police. 

In addition, eight other skaters and over thirty event attendees and staff were seriously injured and had to be rushed to nearby hospitals. One of the surviving casualties has been confirmed as the reigning GPF champion, twenty-three-year-old Viktor Nikiforov, and another as nineteen-year-old Yuuri Katsuki, Japan’s young “ace” attending his first Grand Prix Final. The current conditions of both skaters are unknown.

Christophe Giacometti, twenty-one, a returning Grand Prix Finalist from Switzerland, spoke briefly with the press about the incident after he was released from the hospital late in the evening with minor injures. 

“It was unavoidable,” he said. “By the time anyone saw the car coming, it was too late. It was going so fast—it was a _blur_. You couldn’t run. You couldn’t hide. One second, it was at the edge of the crowd, and the next…I don’t know how to describe it. All the blood. All the…bodies. I… _Carnage_ is the word, I guess. Absolute carnage.”

[THIS STORY IS DEVELOPING]


	2. Chapter 2

**2011**

**Beijing**

 

The first thing he notices is the screaming. Not one person screaming in one situation. But a variety of people screaming for a variety of reasons. There are men shouting in loud, authoritative voices, clearly trying to quell some raucous crowd. There are women barking out orders over a sea of hushed murmurs. There’s someone, gender and sex unknown, wailing in the background, the near-contact hysteria interrupted only by gasping sobs.

Yuuri tries to open his eyes, but he finds they won’t budge. He can see bright lights through his eyelids though, dark gaps in between them, so he figures he’s in a building somewhere. A crowded building. Some place people gather. And judging by the screaming around him, it’s not the kind of place people come for fun.

A…hospital, maybe?

But why would he be there?

Yuuri grasps for his memories, but they slip through his fingers like wisps of smoke and dissipate into the murk in his mind. What was he doing before the hospital? What does he _normally_ do that could end with him getting hurt? He…He _skates_! Yes. He skates. He’s a figure skater. 

So perhaps he fell and injured himself on the ice. Maybe that’s why he’s in a hospital.

But then…why is everyone else here, too? Even if this is an emergency, it’s _too_ crowded, too hectic for a normal day. Isn’t it? Isn’t—?

Yuuri’s world suddenly shifts, his stomach lurching, and he realizes for the first time he’s lying on his back on something with an uncomfortable cushion. A gurney, it must be. Someone has come along and grabbed his gurney, started wheeling him down what Yuuri assumes is a busy hallway. A shadow crosses his eyelids, vaguely human-shaped, and another loud male voice rings out above him.

It’s only now that Yuuri realizes these voices aren’t speaking a language he knows. Not Japanese or English. It almost sounds like… _Chinese_. Mandarin?

So, he’s in a Chinese hospital? Why in the world is he in China? Doesn’t he practice skating in America, in Detroit. 

The answer to this question is on the tip of his tongue, but then a set of gloved hands distract him. They probe his face and neck, as if searching for something, then move farther down his body. When they get to his right wrist, a hot flash of pain sears through his bones, his muscles, and his lips drop open, a harsh gasp on his tongue.

The hands pull back, and someone mutters a string of Chinese to his left.

The gurney starts moving faster, and to Yuuri’s relief, the hands don’t return to his arm. 

What _does_ return is the fatigue that receded only minutes ago, as he pulled himself from a groggy darkness he didn’t know you could fall into. He clenches his teeth and parts his lips, trying to say something, ask a question. But the words fall apart on his tongue, come out mush, a groan and nothing else. And then Yuuri’s gurney hits a door—double doors, probably—and the endless noise from the crowded hallway fades as he’s moved into a quieter section of the hospital.

More voices. Words Yuuri can’t possibly understand. More shadows. People Yuuri can’t open his eyes to see. More gloved hands on his clearly injured body, gentler this time but no less invasive.

He hears the distinct snipping sound of scissors, and feels a series of tugs as someone begins removing his clothing. Yuuri doesn’t know _how_ injured he is—and he still doesn’t know exactly why he’s injured in the first place—but if they’re cutting his clothes off…God, that can’t be good.

Unfortunately, Yuuri doesn’t have a lot of time to think on it. The darkness comes for him again, and the bright lights fade to black, and his mind slips into a disturbed, uneasy sleep.

The last thing he hears is another panicked shout—then nothing.

*

**FIGURE SKATING CHAMPION HOSPITALIZED AFTER GPF TRAGEDY**  

Beijing, China,

_December 11, 2011_

 

Viktor Nikiforov of Russia, twenty-three, reigning GPF Champion and star of the figure skating world, was hospitalized on December 9th with serious injuries after the now infamous and deadly tragedy outside the Capital Indoor Stadium in Beijing. Nikiforov is among eight skaters who survived a direct impact with the speeding car that tragically took so many lives earlier this week.

While Nikiforov’s status was unknown immediately following the crash, his coach, Yakov Felstman, confirmed in a short interview this morning that Nikiforov is in stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery. While Felstman did not specify the skater’s injuries, he stated that Nikiforov would be back on the ice “in short order,” and that everyone should expect to see him in good health again next season.

[THIS STORY IS DEVELOPING] 

*

When Yuuri wakes again, his eyes open this time. Strangely, he recounts his time in the loud hallway, but the situation beyond “Chinese hospital” still remains a mystery to him. Thankfully, he can at least observe the world around him and try to piece together the clues—maybe a nurse or doctor who speaks English will come along to help him out shortly.

For now, he finds himself in a cramped room. There’s another bed to his right, but the curtain is pulled to, so he can’t see whoever is on the bed in there. To his left is a window, but the blinds are drawn, so he can’t see outside. All he has to go on is a standard-looking hospital room and the state of his own body.

Which _hurts_. He thought it hurt before, when the gloved hands were probing his injuries, but now, his entire body seems to throb in time with his pulse, an inescapable, all-encompassing ache that makes it hard to breathe. Yuuri isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be on pain meds and they wore off while he was sleeping, or if someone severely underestimated how much pain he’d be in when he woke up, or if he’s even supposed to be awake at this point, or…

Seriously, what the hell happened to him? 

He couldn’t have injured himself this badly skating, right? Sure, a leg injury, or an arm injury makes sense—he could have fallen while trying a jump and broken a bone or two. A head injury, even. He’s smacked his face on the ice more than once, to his embarrassment.

But his body doesn’t feel like _that_. It feels like he was run over with a steamroller, then had his flattened body re-inflated using a helium tank. _Fuck_ , has he ever been in this much pain before? He’s honestly not sure.

A loud groan, raspy in his dry throat, sails across the room, to the hallway, and to Yuuri’s _joy,_ manages to reach the nearest nurse’s station. A young Chinese nurse comes running in a few seconds later and spies him lying there in agony. She immediately rounds his bed, murmuring soft words to him as she fiddles with the medications hanging from the IV rack.

About thirty seconds later, Yuuri feels a warmth pouring into his veins through the IV attached to his wrist—and he sighs as the worst of the pain starts to ebb.

The nurse looks down at him apologetically and says something else Yuuri can’t understand. But he does catch a couple words that don’t seem to fit with the rest of the language. A name, maybe? But not _his_ name.

He stares up at her in confusion, and she shakes her head. “I get…doctor…for you?” she manages to stammer out in a language she is clearly uncomfortable with.

Yuuri nods as best he can with his stiff, sore neck. “Yes, please.”

He balks. _Is that my voice?_ He sounds so different than usual. He wonders if they intubated him at some point, maybe for surgery, and the tube irritated his vocal cords. He’s heard of that happening before, but he never imagined it making him sound like a whole different person. He hopes it doesn’t last—it makes him feel…strange.

The nurse pats his shoulder gently. “Wait. Doctor soon.” Then she leaves.

Yuuri honestly expects to wait quite a while, but to his immense surprise, a doctor in a white coat strolls in only three or four minutes later. 

_Finally,_ Yuuri thinks, _someone who can answer my questions._

It’s still nagging at him. Why is he in China? Why is he injured? 

He can feel the answers mocking him, dancing around in the shadows of his brain.

The doctor grabs his chart, checks his vitals, clicks his tongue, and says, in English even better than Yuuri’s, “You’re quite lucky, you know?” He flips to the second page of the chart. “As fast as that car was going, your injuries could have been much, much worse, Mr. N—”

_“Car?”_ Yuuri rasps out in his not-right voice. “I was hit by a car?”

The doctor glances down at him, his steady expression suddenly pained. “You don’t remember?” 

“No, nothing.” Yuuri swallows, but it feels like sand going down his throat. “Do I have a brain injury?”

“Minor concussion,” the doctor replies. “But some memory loss is not uncommon after extreme trauma.” He taps Yuuri’s chart. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We’ve checked your brain several times already. No bleeding. And the swelling has already gone down these past two days.”

“Two days?” Yuuri whispers, horrified. Has he lost two days?

The doctor sighs. “All right. Let me start from the beginning. What is the _last_ thing you remember?”

Yuuri thinks hard. He’s in China, so what makes sense? China is…China is…

Chinese is where this year’s Grand Prix Final is being held. That’s right. And Yuuri _made it_ to this year’s GPF.

Yes. _Yes._

It comes back to him in fragments. Arriving in Beijing. Checking into his hotel with Celestino. The opening day of the GPF. The press doing introductory interviews. A phone call from his parents and Mari, wishing him luck. The Short Program, where, somehow, he managed to _not_ finish dead last—he finished fourth. Not the best, but enough to fight for the podium.

And after that. After the Short Program. There was…There was…

A flash of silver in his memory.

There was Viktor. Yes, Viktor. He’d gotten to meet _Viktor_ in person for the first time. The man plastered across Yuuri’s walls in more posters than anyone could count. The man who _inspired_ Yuuri to skate competitively. The man who broke all the records. The man the skating world adores _._ The demigod among mortals who seems to sweep up gold medals with minimal effort. 

Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri had gotten to speak with him, right? They’d been introduced.

But the memory of the meeting won’t quite come together, and it frustrates Yuuri so much he wants to cry. He’d met his idol, his dream had come true—and then had been reduced to dust falling right through Yuuri’s fingers.

Cursing under his breath, Yuuri comes back to the moment and eyes the doctor. “The Grand Prix Final. I skated the Short Program. On…On December 9th? And then…did something happen after that?”

The doctor scribbles something on the chart, then hesitates before he answers, his gaze cast anywhere but on Yuuri. “Yes, I’m afraid something quite terrible happened that evening. As the stadium was letting out for the night, an intoxicated man drove his car into the crowd near the entrance. It was…Well, quite frankly, it was a nightmare. There were deaths. And many people are in the hospital as well. Including you.”

Yuuri feels cold. A car had _killed_ people? Which people? Celestino? Viktor?

Yuuri sits up on his elbows, pulse racing, breaths coming in pants. “Who? Who died?”

The doctor looks taken aback. He glances at the monitors next to Yuuri’s bed, which are now fluctuating wildly, and raises his hand in a placating manner. “Please, calm down. You need to rest. You had emergency surgery just two days ago to stop internal bleeding in your abdomen. On top of that, you have four badly bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and numerous lacerations all over your body, several of which required stitches. You are not in any condition, Mr. N—”

Someone knocks on the door. Or, rather, on the doorframe.

Yuuri and the doctor both glance to the doorway, where an older man with a hat is standing. Familiarity tickles the back of Yuuri’s memory, but he can’t quite find the man’s name. The man removes his hat as he walks into the room, looking from Yuuri on the bed to the doctor standing next to it.

“Your nurses said he could take a visitor or two?” the man asks in English, with what Yuuri recognizes as a Russian accent. “For a few minutes?”

The doctor taps his finger on the chart, indecisive. “He’s well enough to speak, yes, but still quite confused, and also weak. A short visit will be all right, but please, do not overtax him. He needs his rest.” The doctor gives Yuuri a critical eye, but speaks to the Russian man. “And if you’re up for it, sir, he needs details on the incident. He’s suffering from minor memory loss regarding the…event.” 

The Russian man nods solemnly and moves farther into the room.

Yuuri spots movement behind the man, and sees a young blond boy peeking around the doorframe. A preteen. Maybe ten or eleven? But the child doesn’t make any move to enter the room, even as the doctor warns Yuuri to take it easy, then exits. The blond child glares at the doctor for a split second, as he’s passing by, then focuses his intense green eyes on Yuuri’s prone form on the bed.

Yuuri feels exposed, especially as the Russian man shuffles closer to the bed. The man slowly sinks into a visitor’s chair next to the bed, and Yuuri opens his mouth, trying to find words— _Who are you? What do you want?_ —but he’s at a loss.

So the Russian mans beats him to the punch—and begins speaking in Russian.

Yuuri stares at him blankly the entire time he’s talking. He doesn’t know Russian at all, beyond a few common words, like _yes_ and _no_ and _hello_. So why is this man speaking to him like he should be fluent? There’s something Yuuri is missing here. He knows it, but he can’t pin it down.

The Russian man finally catches on to the fact that Yuuri isn’t following the conversation. He leans closer. “Vitya?” he questions, followed by another string of words.

“I…I…” Yuuri stammers.

There’s a sudden noise, and Yuuri breaks eye contact with the Russian man to find the blond boy has snuck into the room and turned on the TV hanging from the ceiling, by stretching to his tiptoes and _just_ grazing the button with his fingers.

The TV is tuned to a news channel. 

Covering the “devastating tragedy” at the GPF.

There are pictures. Red stains on the pavement. Black body bags lined up on a sidewalk.

There is a video. Mobile phone footage. A car plowing through a crowd. Blood spraying through the air. People flying. _Limbs_ flying. Bodies crumpling under the weight of a…

Nausea grips Yuuri’s stomach, and he gags. And that’s the end of any composure he may have had. He flails, ripping off all his monitors, and tearing the IV needle right out of his arm. The Russian man yells at him, in Russian, and Yuuri ignores him, scrambling up from the bed on legs that can barely support his weight.

He dashes to the bathroom in the corner of the room, his gown nearly coming undone, leaving him half-nude in front of two complete strangers. But he doesn’t even care about that. Not at all.

The blond boy blanches as Yuuri blows past him, into the bathroom, and slams the door shut.

He collapses to his knees and vomits into the toilet. Over and over. Even though there’s nothing in stomach but acid. After that passes, he rests his cheek on the toilet seat and dry heaves. For minutes. For hours. What’s the difference?

When he runs out of energy, and is left gasping, trembling, curled up on a bathroom floor, someone knocks gently on the door.

“Vitya?” says the Russian man through the faux wood.

Yuuri tries to be angry. What does that mean? _Vitya._ And why does this stranger keep speaking to Yuuri like he knows Russian? Has there been some mix-up? Did someone mistakenly report that Yuuri knows…?

Breaking from his reverie, Yuuri realizes that his stare has drifted up to his hand, clenched on the toilet lid, knuckles white, and a realization slowly, slowly slips into his head. _That’s not…my hand._

It’s a strange thought, but it’s true.

That’s _not_ his hand. It’s too big, and the skin tone isn’t right.

But if that’s not his hand, then… 

Yuuri is too exhausted to feel fear at this point, so he files the panic away for later, in favor of confirming…what? His bizarre new reality? Or that he’s actually trapped in some kind of nightmare? Or…dare he think it…both?

With what little strength remains in his…in _this_ body, Yuuri reaches up, grips the rim of the sink, and pulls himself to a crouched standing position on quaking legs.

There’s a dinged-up mirror above the sink, but despite its age, it does its job well enough.

Yuuri Katsuki looks into the mirror.

Viktor Nikiforov looks back.

Yuuri screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Just FYI: I'm not looking for critiques or any other writing advice. Please spend your time critiquing the writers who ask for it. I don't write fics for quality. I write for fun.


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